


Giveaway Fic #7 - Kidnapped John!Whump/Panicked Sherlock/Switchlock

by ConsultingPurplePants



Series: 1000 Tumblr Followers Giveaway Fics [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, John!whump, Kidnapped John, M/M, switchlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 09:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7217605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s on his side, his hands bound tightly behind his back. He can’t feel his right one, and with his ankles bound, it’s very difficult to roll over and relieve the pressure. </p>
<p>The substance dripping into his eye, he realizes, is blood. </p>
<p>His own blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giveaway Fic #7 - Kidnapped John!Whump/Panicked Sherlock/Switchlock

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Can't believe I've been doing this for a week already o.O
> 
> This one is for **[@yorkiepug](http://yorkiepug.tumblr.com)** , who asked for:   
> _Okay, I'm not good at prompting, but for my lucky win what I would love is a whumpy John is kidnapped, Sherlock is panicked ficlet. Bonus points for switchlock. LOOOOVE YOU!_
> 
> I LOVE YOU TOO I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS <3

There’s something— Something dripping. He blinks, twisting his head, trying to stop it from—

Shit. It’s in his eye, it’s sticky, he can’t blink it out, he reaches for—

He can’t move his hands. 

His head slowly starts to clear, and he begins to take stock of his surroundings, something which, in the end, only takes seconds, because he’s lying in pitch darkness. 

He’s on his side, his hands bound tightly behind his back. He can’t feel his right one, and with his ankles bound, it’s very difficult to roll over and relieve the pressure. 

The substance dripping into his eye, he realizes, is blood. 

His own blood. 

He blinks again, trying to clear his eye, but it stings too much, and he ends up simply shutting it again. A head wound would explain the blood as well as why he has absolutely no recollection of getting here. 

For lack of anything more useful to do, he focuses his efforts on trying to roll over onto his stomach to get blood flow back to his right hand. He shifts, trying to use his momentum to roll himself. Each movement puts more pressure on his hand, and he cries out in the darkness, the pain momentarily making him forget that he might not be alone. He freezes, but when no one comes, he renews his efforts, and eventually, manages to get onto his front. 

The blood flows back; it starts as pins and needles, but quickly turns to a burning that has him grunting in pain, trying to hold back his cries. 

Eventually, the only true pain left is his throbbing head and incessantly burning eye. 

_CLANG._

John jerks, startled. 

“Hello? Is someone there?”

_CLANG._

“Hello?”

He receives no answer, but he hears footsteps running around him in the darkness. He’s not alone, and the thought of being unable to see his assailants is a truly frightening one. He squirms, trying to move, free himself, _anything_ , but his bonds hold him tight. 

There’s a scuffle outside; he hears several people shouting, and then, terrifyingly, gunshots. 

And then, the one voice he’d been simultaneously hoping to hear and praying to God not to.

“JOHN! ARE YOU IN THERE!? _JOHN!_ ”

“Sher—,” he tries, but his voice cracks from dehydration and disuse. He swallows, and his next attempt is slightly better. “Sherlock!”

He isn’t loud enough.

A door bursts open to his left, and just as his remaining eye is blinded by the sudden daylight, he is yanked backwards into the darkness. Someone puts a blade to his neck. 

John wonders if this is it.

Everything comes back in a flash. 

He’s been kidnapped by human traffickers; the reason for the darkness is that they’re in a shipping container, and Sherlock has probably arrived just before he was shipped off to god-knows-where. They had had a particularly good lead on the group, but they were ambushed during a stakeout. John was taken before Sherlock even had a chance to react. 

His eye slowly has a chance to adjust to the new lighting, and through the door, he can see Sherlock fighting ferociously, the Met behind him. He’s never seen Sherlock like this, so furious, so strong, so… scared? There’s a glint in Sherlock’s eye that John has never seen before, and it slowly dawns on him that he has no way of knowing what day today is. 

There’s a certain desperation to Sherlock’s movements that John has never seen before, and hopes he never will again. 

Finally, everyone outside is subdued, and Sherlock comes into the container, John’s gun in his hands. 

John’s captor laughs, and it echoes all around the tiny room. 

“John? Are you there?”

“Sher—Mmph!” he cries, but his captor gets his hand over his mouth before he can get any further. 

It’s enough for Sherlock, though, who immediately whirls towards them. 

“Let him go,” he says quietly. John’s captor laughs again. 

“Why? Because you’ve got a gun? I don’t know if you’ve noticed yet, Mr. Holmes, but we are currently inside a metal shipping container. Even if you _did_ manage to hit me, the shot would probably ricochet and could kill any one of us.”

“Why are you doing this? What’s the point? I’ve got the Met with me, we’ve dismantled your entire operation over the last five days. Why do you insist on holding John captive?” Sherlock demands. The gun remains pointed firmly in their direction the whole time.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wouldn’t aim in that direction if I were you,” his captor responds, ignoring Sherlock’s questions. He shoves John forwards into the sliver of light from the door. 

Sherlock gasps, the sound horrible and broken, and John realizes what Sherlock’s just said. 

It’s been five days. 

“John,” he whispers, his voice cracking. John’s captor tightens his grip, and John feels a single drop of blood drip down the side of his neck. Sherlock’s hand flies forwards. “No, don’t—.”

There’s the crack of a gunshot. 

John crumples to the ground. 

Sherlock sprints towards him and kneels down, pulling out a Swiss Army knife and getting to work on the knots, completely ignoring the body behind them. 

The Met enter the container, flashlights out, and start searching. Lestrade, now the one holding John’s gun, hands it silently to Sherlock before joining the rest of his team.

“Don’t you wanna—,” John gets out. Sherlock looks horrified.

“No. No. Absolutely not. John, you’re— It’s been _days_ ,” he answers, and John wonders just how bad he must look if Sherlock is at a loss for words. 

“I’m all right,” he tells him, but Sherlock just looks more worried. 

“John. You’re bleeding. There’s so much blood in your eye that you can’t even get it open. Both of your hands are a slightly alarming shade of purple. You’re covered in bruises. I’m sorry, oh _God_ , John, I’m _so sorry_ , I should have realized it was an ambush, I should have _known—_.”

“Sherlock! I’m fine. Just. Get me home. Please, love.”

Sherlock’s hands are shaking when he helps John up, his eyes wild. John is fairly sure Sherlock hasn’t slept in five days. 

“Please tell me you’ve been sleeping.”

“What?”

“Sleep, love. Have you slept?”

Sherlock nearly drops him. “Of course not. I had to find you! Do you realize that this container was going to be shipped out tomorrow!? It would have been impossible to find you—.”

John stops him with a kiss. “You _did_ find me, though. You did. I’m here.”

There’s a shocked gasp from behind them, and what sounds like someone’s elbow connecting with someone else’s ribs. 

Lestrade comes up behind them. “Good to see you, John!” he says, his smile not reaching his eyes, which are creased with worry. “Can I interest you two in a lift home?”

It’s a testament to how bad John must look that Sherlock acquiesces without any resistance at all. 

***  
Sherlock drags him immediately into the bathroom, tearing off John’s sweaty, bloody clothes and getting them both into the shower. 

John hisses when the water hits the abrasions on his hands and feet, probably gained while trying to roll over. He looks down at himself and spots multiple bruises, both on his torso and his limbs. 

Sherlock seems frozen in place, a soapy flannel dangling from his fingers. 

“Hey,” John whispers. Sherlock glances down at him.

“Hey. I’m okay. You found me, love. I’m okay.”

Sherlock takes a deep, shuddering breath, and starts to clean John’s head wound. It’s mostly scabbed over, now, but Sherlock clearly doesn’t want to take any chances. 

“I almost didn’t,” he says hoarsely. “I was too slow, I almost didn’t find you, John, I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if that container had shipped out—.”

John reaches up, cradles Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Sherlock. You would’ve found me anyway. I am absolutely sure that you would have, no matter how long it took.”

Sherlock’s hands come up to hold John’s. “They hurt you, John.”

“You saved me, Sherlock.”

They get themselves toweled off and dry, and when John catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he can’t help but think that with all of the blood cleaned off, he doesn’t look half bad. 

Sherlock, however, stands behind him with his shoulders hunched and his head bowed. He leans forwards to kiss the top of John’s head. “I’m so sorry, John.”

John turns in his arms, pulling him towards him. He surges up, ignoring the pain in his feet as he captures Sherlock’s lips with his own. Sherlock whimpers quietly when John nibbles at his bottom lip. 

“Bed?” John whispers. 

Sherlock’s eyes widen. “You’re not—.”

John cuts him off with another deep kiss. They both end up unsteady on their feet. “I just want to show you that I’m still here. That I’m all right. Alright?”

Sherlock nods shakily, and they walk slowly towards their bed, stopping every few steps to embrace each other. Once there, they tumble into the blankets. 

Sherlock crawls over John, dipping his head low to kiss him. John opens his mouth almost immediately, and their tongues slide wetly against one another. John moans from somewhere in the back of his throat, and Sherlock rolls them over so that John is on top of him. John sits up.

He smiles down at Sherlock, running his hands all over Sherlock’s chest, paying particular attention to his nipples, loving the way Sherlock’s naked body writhes beneath his. 

“John,” he whispers. John leans forwards to kiss him again, his hands still toying with his nipples. Sherlock moans into the kiss, his hips frantically trying to thrust up. 

“I’m here,” John whispers between kisses. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here—.”

“John, please—,” Sherlock cries out. John releases him, reaching into the bedside drawer to get the tube of lube they stash there. 

Sherlock watches in awe as John reaches down and starts to open himself. “John?”

“I want you to feel me all around you. I want you to know that you did it, that I’m here, that I’m _alive_ ,” John answers. Sherlock’s eyes are as wide as saucers. 

John reaches behind himself to grip Sherlock’s cock and line it up. Sherlock cries out.

“I’m ready. Are you ready?”

Sherlock nods frantically, and John bears down, taking Sherlock’s cock inch by inch. Sherlock makes an inhuman noise. 

“Come here,” John tells him. Sherlock sits up, and they arrange themselves so that Sherlock is sitting up against the headboard, and John is making little circles with his hips in Sherlock’s lap, hitting his own prostate nearly every time.

Sherlock’s eyes roll back in his head.

John leans forwards and kisses him again. Sherlock’s hands come up to clutch at his shoulders, pulling him as close as he can. John can feel Sherlock trembling in his arms, and he knows that Sherlock is close. 

“Touch me,” he whispers in Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock moans as he reaches for John’s cock. 

The first touch feels like an electrical spark to every single one of John’s nerve endings. He throws his head back, the feeling almost too much, and Sherlock keeps stroking him, slowly at first, then speeding up as John starts to bounce in his lap. 

“Christ, _fuck_ , Sherlock, I’m close, I’m—,” is all he gets out before he’s coming, his release dripping down Sherlock’s chest and over his fist. His whole body is alight with pleasure, a welcome change from the numbness and pain from earlier, and it’s not long before Sherlock is gasping out, “ _John_ ,” and shuddering through his own orgasm. John kisses him through it, swallowing all of his moans and whimpers. 

They lie down next to each other, John draped over Sherlock in the now-sweaty sheets. “I love you,” John whispers, and Sherlock heaves a great gasping breath. 

“I almost lost you,” he whispers back. John shakes his head. 

“You found me. I’m here. I love you,” he repeats firmly. Sherlock rolls over and hugs him close. 

“I love you, too.”

Somehow, sleep finds them easily.


End file.
